


Hewwo?

by Kelardry



Category: All the Wrong Questions - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 12:55:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17808350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelardry/pseuds/Kelardry
Summary: There was a town, and there was a letter, and there was a furry. While I was in the town, I was hired to investigate the letter, and I thought the furry had written it. I was almost thirteen and I was wrong. I was wrong about all of it. I should have asked the question “Why would someone wear a disguise, if they were not hiding their identity?” Instead, I asked the wrong question—four wrong questions, more or less. This is an account of one more.----A one-chapter excerpt from the account of another wrong question. It's about the meme.





	Hewwo?

The basement was the sort of basement that looks ominous and frightening even when it is only being used for innocuous purposes. A basement like that _can_ be used to store cleaning supplies and cooking oils, or as a dry repository for fragile documents, or as shelter from a tornado or meteorite shower. There is nothing inherently wicked about a basement.

The basement in question was not, at the time, being used to store unused supplies or documents, and it seemed unlikely that I had been bound and placed there alone while unconscious to protect me from a natural disaster.

I was wearing an animal disguise, the one I had fallen asleep in, of the sort that allows one to pass for an unusually small, blue, and bipedal cow. During my childhood, I was trained extensively in the use of such disguises. I had not intended to sleep in it, only to eat a delicious meal cooked by one of my associates, but now it seemed that his supply of ingredients, or their storage in his kitchen, was no longer trustworthy.

 _You don't know that it was laudanum, Snicket_ , I told myself. _Just because it has been laudanum before, on so many occasions, does not mean that it was laudanum on this occasion._ And it was true. I didn't _know_ that it was laudanum, any more than I knew that whoever had placed me here meant me harm, rather than an impolite but kind-hearted surprise party, or that I would not enjoy a novel with a morbid title by an author with a spelling error in his name. But I suspected it, due to prior experience. I had disliked the short stories I had read by the same author, about arson and funerals, and I had never been kidnapped by someone who wanted to throw me a surprise party.

 _And the ingested drug of choice_ , I reminded myself, _for adults who want people to be confused, compliant, incoherent, or unconscious, has been laudanum for the entirety of your apprenticeship._ There are accounts of my previous experience with the substance, if you want to read them. You probably don't.

It is an entirely natural instinct, when one wakes up alone in a basement, cave, or post office that is slowly filling with water, to call out to anyone who may be nearby, especially if one's hands and legs are tied together in an uncomfortable position. I had been taught not to do this, however. If there is someone nearby but out of your range of sight, it is not likely that they mean you well. There are very few circumstances under which a kind or noble person notices a bound and unconscious person in an area that is filling up with water without helping them. If someone does _not_ mean you well, then there is no need to let them know that you are awake.

I found a way to swing my torso and legs against the floor that allowed me to rotate myself so that I was not facing down, and then so that I could look at the rest of the room I was in. It was difficult to see, through the damp fur and scuffed lenses, but I managed to take stock of my surroundings. "Take stock" is a phrase which here means "appraise your surroundings," and has nothing to do with a delicious base for soup. _You are at risk of_ _ **becoming**_ _part of a very unpleasant and watery beef soup_ _yourself_ _, if you do not find a way out of your predicament_ , I told myself. _Get scared later._

The basement had a smooth concrete floor, ugly brick walls, and a very high ceiling. There were metal hooks mounted in the wall, although nobody had left a hat or jacket on any of them. I could see all this by the light of flickering, tube-shaped bulbs, of the sort that instructors never believe are really bothering you, set into fixtures in the ceiling. I could also see that it was the sort of basement that is accessed by a ladder that descends through a trap door, rather than stairs.

There was no ladder, only the tip of a garden hose, spraying water onto the floor through a tiny hole in the closed door. I could not reach the hose. I would not have been able to reach it, even with the ability to lift my hands above my head, the freedom to move my fingers without the restriction of my hoof-mittens, and a table or pair of stilts to stand on.

I heard footsteps on the floor above me. I decided that possibly informing my captor that I was awake was better than letting someone who might come to my aid walk away unaware, and called out, disguising my voice.

I asked the question that is the title of this fic. It was the wrong question then, and it was the wrong question later, when the person dressed as a monster asked it of me. Then I asked another wrong question: "Is anybody thewe?" The questions I _should_ have asked were "Why would a villain with an unconscious enemy use an unnecessarily convoluted method of murder that had already failed once?" and "What are these bricks made of?", but this is not an account of the times I asked the right questions.

"Yes," said the voice from upstairs, and I was so surprised that it took me several seconds to recognize it. It was a voice I had previously only heard on records, in what you might call a rhetorical analysis class. But there was a villain who could sound like anyone, in Stain'd by the Sea, so I told myself not to be surprised.

"I'm a hewpwess daiwy cow; I got wost and have been twapped in this woom! Pwease hewp me!" I cried, still in the voice I had been taught to use for non-human animal disguises. I have never heard a cow speak with any other accent. I continued to squirm and splash across the floor, to the wall with the coat-hooks.

"G-d west youw soul" said the incongruous voice, after a long pause.

"Hewwo!" I yelled again, now mostly to hide the sounds I was making, "Ma'am why awe you doing this? Hewp me, pwease!"

"May youw memowy be a bwessing," said the mocking voice, indistinguishable from that of Barack Obama, or his twin sister.

I pushed my legs up the wall, until I was able to snag the rope around my ankles on one of the hooks. This took several attempts, and was an extremely undignified process. It is my sincerest hope that this scene is never illustrated.

"Y-Youw Awizona Highness, is that you? Pwease hewp me, I'm in twouble!" I said, trying to mask the straining of my breath and the sound of my feet against the wall by making my voice frightened. It was not a difficult way to sound.

After a great struggle, I was able to pull the rope off of my feet, and then stand. Because of the puffy fur of my suit, the ropes had not been tied as tightly or securely as they should have been, and I was eventually able to slide them over my the hooves of my costume. It would have been faster if I had freed my hands first, but I might have fallen again in the process. Wet socks are very unpleasant, but an entirely wet suit is worse. It was easier to think that way, with my head above my feet and nothing around my ankles.

I made my first attempt at freeing my hands. It is difficult to catch something wrapped around your wrists against something behind your back, at shoulder level. My arms told me they appreciated the learning experience but would prefer never to bend at that angle again. I agreed wholeheartedly and vocally, and promised to wait and stretch before trying again.

“Pwease Youw Awizona Highness, pwease save me, I don’t wanna die!” I called, to explain the noise I had made, although it was not a lie. “H-hewwo, Youw Awizona Highness, Co-Pwincipal Citizen of Awizona, awe you still thewe?”

There was only silence in response. It was not the sort of silence that meant “No, I have gone to read a book somewhere more comfortable,” or “No, I have fallen asleep,” or even “No, because I have gone out to get us both sandwiches, and forgot to ask whether you like mayonnaise,” because it was instead the sort of silence that meant “Yes, I am still here, but am too overwhelmed with contempt for you and your circumstances to respond to your questions.”

I asked my arms if they were ready to try again, and they answered that they most certainly were not. I told them that I was very sorry but I was going to do so anyway, and my legs added that they were submerged past the knees and would I terribly mind removing them from this situation as soon as possible. This time, I managed not to make a sound when I jammed my fingers against the wall and applied pressure to my shoulders in the wrong direction, until the rope caught on the hook.

I lost my balance as the rope slipped off of my mittens, and fell back into the water on the floor with a loud splash. I spat grimy water out of my mouth, although I suspected it was still inside the head of my disguise. “Youw Awizona Highness, pwease, I’m dwowning, I’m afwaid!”

The water added a tremble to my voice, although it really wasn’t necessary. I got back to my feet and unzipped the hooves from my hands, although I couldn’t take off anything else without ruining the disguise. “I’ll do anything fow you, just pwease hewp!” This was, of course, not true, but I wanted to know whether they wanted something from me.

“Anything?” The voice might have been surprised, although it was difficult to tell.

I tested the buoyancy of my suit, and determined that it was too heavy to float in. “Anything for you, Youw Awizona Highness!”

“Then perish.” The footsteps above me retreated, leaving me apparently alone with the water.

The suit was _not_ too heavy to wear while treading water, although it would be boring and difficult to do it until the water reached the ceiling. I would not perish, or at least, would not perish in that basement that evening.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story I've ever posted here!  
> I was on a discord server, and someone listed alternative wrong questions, such as "What the Fuck?" and "Hewwo?", and a different opening paragraph for such a novel. It was Inspiring.  
> I will not be writing any more of this story, though.


End file.
